Cold Hair
by SoulessSarcasm
Summary: So, poorly written noncon, dark creek oneshot. i dont really edit my fics, so hopefully there's nothing too bad spelling and grammar wise. PWP. R&R? ... lol if this is liked I'll write a prequel.


I toss and turn in my bed, hoping to fall back asleep. I can't. Maybe it's the coffee I've been drinking constantly?

No, that can't be it. I stop turning and moving on my side, and I am greeted with a wad of dark, thick hair. I blink, and twitch, due to the feeling it send down my body. I hear him snore, and shift somewhere under the blanket. I feel myself tense up, a little surprised from the sudden cutting of the silence, but I relax quickly.

When I wake up the next morning, I open my eyes to see that same dark hair in my face, the light now shining on it to give it that warm glow.

If only it were warm... If only _he_ was warm.

I slip out from under the blankets, the cool air hitting my skin harshly. I sighed inwardly, and made my way to the bathroom, glad that the heaters are working _somewhere_. I stop on top of the vent for a few seconds and look around the messy bathroom. Clothes everywhere, and something splattered all over the mirror. I raise an eyebrow as I scan the place, and my eyes spot something.

I step off the vent to look at the shiny object closer, and I frown. I bend over, and look at the syringe. It feels like it's flipping me off- like it wants to curse out at me, and laugh in my face. I feel my breath intake stop momentarily as I realize what it means. I shut my eyes really tight, and hold my knees to my chest, and wait.

A few moments later, I hear heavy feet hitting the ground, and my breathing cuts short. "Tweek?" I hear his voice, thundering in my sky of silence and peace. I hear the steps stop, and I know where he is. "The fuck are you doing in there?" I can't muster up any sort of response. "Tweek! Did you go deaf last night?" he asks me, impatiently, his voice increasing its intensity.

I have to think my response through; I know what will just increase his anger- which is a little short of everything. "I was just about to clean up," I explain, softly, defeated.

"Clean up? A little toothpick like you?" he asks, stepping closer. I can feel him leaning over me, and I can feel his skeptical expression. "Did I ask for you to clean up?" the words I dread to hear hit me like a frying pan. I can feel my nails digging into my legs, trying to keep from making any sound.

"No, Craig."

"So then, explain to me, why are you cleaning up?" his voice is dull again, but I know the rage and hate is building up inside.

"I wasn't."

"So you're lying, now?"

"... Yes," my response is truthful, yet, I still feel like I'm lying. "Please, Craig..." I whimper, slowly, my eyes stinging. My hand leaves my protective position, and reaches out to the used needle, the one that mocked me, silently. I turned around, so my back was now against the toilet and the porcelain bathtub. I know he know's what I'm trying to imply, his eyes twitch ever so slightly.

"... I don't need to keep my promises to _you._"

Craig's words would always and forever hurt me more than anything, and I knew it. So did he, I'm sure. He walks away, and I am left, sobbing in this dirty home.

"Tell me, Tweek, is there any reason in particular that you decided to come for counseling?" her voice is soft, silky- _foreign_. I nod slowly, like I am unsure. "Good... We have somewhere to start..." she scribbles something down, and I squeeze my hand around the edges of the seat, and nod once more. "Now, Tweek, I want you to know that everything that is said between us stays between us, unless you are going to be posing harm to anyone- including yourself," makes sense, I guess. I nod again. "How would you like to start off? ...Hm, let's see, tell me two things you enjoy, and one thing you don't."

"I -ah!- like coffee..." I hate shrieking like that without warning- I saw her physically jump a bit when I did, "I-I also like my happy place..." more scribbles, and I let the knowledge of confidentiality calm me down about that... No use in getting upset over that, right? "I really don't like having to listen to my parents argue…" I manage to say that without stuttering. I look down, away from her, and I hear her 'hm'.

"I see, Tweek, and you know it's not your fault, right, hun?" she asks, my ears twitching slightly. I shrug. "No matter what they say- their argument's motives are within _them_, I promise."

Well, that's a comforting thought, but… I paid a lot of money to get this hour of talking to her, so I better make the best of this. "Okay." I nod.

"What about in your free time? How do you spend time when you're alone?" she asks me, and my mind races at the thought.

"I… I like to-gah!- I like to read!" I manage; my hands are getting sore from the clenching. I kept it up, though, so that I can keep focused.

And we go on like this for about an hour, like I paid for, before she asked me something that I didn't expect. "Where are those bruises from?"

"Ah! What b-bruises?"

"Your neck, Tweek, on your neck."

"I… Was wearing my scarf too tightly."

"Is that so?"

"Our time is up. I can only afford-" I stop myself before I remind myself of Craig. I instantly felt something drop down in my gut, just thinking about trying to keep this from him was oh so-

"… Well, then, try and be careful next time. See you soon," she says, her eyes down on that sheet she was writing on throughout, and I nod.

"Right, thanks," and I'm out of there. I walk outside, and look around. I don't even know where to go, so I just walk.

After a while, I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket, and I take it out without hesitation, even if I know what's in store for me.

"Uh, Tweek?" his tone, _oh God_, _his tone_, "What the fuck cost you three hundred and sixty-three dollars?" I cringe silently, my hand jerking violently.

"Craig, it's nothing, don't worry-"

"Don't _worry_?" he sounds flabbergasted, "Three hundred and sixty three fucking dollars is not something to not worry about! You selfish asshole!" I cringe again.

"I-I'm sorry…"

"Yea, I bet you are," he sounds mad, _really_ mad. "You're in for it, cunt-face, so I hope you enjoyed whatever cost you three hundred and sixty three fucking dollars!" I can practically hear him slamming his phone against something hard. What lead me to believe a shared bank account was a good idea?

I'm at Craig's house, and I don't know why. I know I'd rather hear my parents screaming at each other, but I'm here. Here at this place, waiting for something that I know I won't want to remember.

I don't know how much time has passed, but I know it's at least a little while, when I hear the door open. I tense up, and hear his boots being kicked off, and hitting the wall. "Tweek!" I heard him call for me. "Tweek, I-I! Come here!" I don't know what he's trying to say to me, but I get up anyways, and walk to the front door, where I gasp.

He's wearing a short sleeved shirt, one I didn't even know he had, and he's pretty beat up. And there's a rash on the inside of his elbow. "Gah! Craig!" I shriek, shaking my head and grabbing his shoulder. "Craig… This needs to stop."

Of course, my words are as hollow as an empty coffee mug. To him, at least.

He doesn't listen to me, but instead, he grabs my wrist, and leads me to the kitchen. I whimper a bit when he pushes against the counter, and I shut my eyes, for what's about to come (no pun intended).

I hear him moan, or groan, or _something_, and his hands were on my hips. He grinds his against mine, and kisses me roughly. I'm not sure what it is that I taste on his tongue, but I don't like it… It's familiar, and that's about all I can figure out.

He's cold, and clammy, despite how much body heat we're sharing, and I can't help but try and hold onto a piece of fabric rather than his skin… It's easier that way. I pull away from him, breathing heavily. "Craig…" my words are breathy, and I'm scared shitless, to put it lightly. "I… No thanks," was all I could manage to say to him. His hands move up into my hair, tugging roughly. It was a numbing pain, and I'm not sure if what he's trying to do.

He's so fucking out of it, though, I swear. His eyes and movements are delayed… I'll never understand why, and I try not to think about it. I try and avoid blaming myself, but… Well, there's no proof of that, is there?

I take in a harsh breath of air when I feel his hands yank at my hair harder, sharply. "Ah..! Th-that hurts…" I inform him weakly, and he pays no heed. I squeeze my eyes shut, and I don't realize until I hear them hit the floor that he's dropped his pants. Another sharp breath and I realize exactly what's going to happen, and how.

I know there is no use in begging for him to stop. I know there is no use in struggling. I feel him life my body up onto the counter, and he shoves my upper body onto the cupboard. I feel the corner cut into my back, but I just don't care.

He muffles something out, his words slurred. I can't make out what he's saying. As I'm trying to make out his jumbled words, I feel him yank my jeans off my waist and down my legs. I know what to expect, and I know how much it's going to hurt. Every. Single. Time.

There's a very small and quick moment that Craig experiences when he comes down, and it's usually in between him throwing up- which he doesn't necessarily do every single time- and passing out. He promises me that he won't ever do it again- he swears. I know the words are hallow, somewhere inside of me, I know that this morning will be repeated. I know that he will tell me- _remind_ me- that I'm not worth keeping promises for.

Without warning, I feel him entering me. _This_ part of him is extremely _warm_, but cold. Is this in his sober nature? I can't say… Sometimes, I can't tell what he's shot up, or not. If he manages to not utter (or _try _to) anything, it's not so easy for me to tell.

My eyes are wide for a second, and then my left eye closes, trying to adjust, or at least get used to the feeling. It's very painful, no matter how often he does this. I choke on the air, clenching my toes and my hands; they're digging into the cupboard handles now. I have learned not to make a sound during this, because I do not want to upset him in this state, and I know that I shouldn't waste my breath. Craig doesn't care.

I do not consider this sex, to be honest. Sex is something that two lovers share to show raw emotion, and express everything without words. Something that is cherished- something _I_ want to learn to cherish. Perhaps, one day, I will come to feel that way about this. I can feel him exiting, with haste, and re-entering the same way. The explicit pain I am feeling now is slowly going away. It's not being replaced with pleasure… It never has been. Maybe that is an indication of the need to escape, the need to get away from Craig.

I know I can't do that.

Again, I am unaware of the amount of time that passes as he fucks me, hard, and it's almost making me think it's unruly. I can feel him _slamming_ into me, as if he's never going to get the chance to again.

But, I guess if you can't remember it the next day, then maybe this _is_ the last chance.

Either way, this is happening, right now, and I'm sore. I don't want to take this anymore… I feel like I'm about to pass out, but I'm sure he feels the same way, in some way, shape, or form. I hear him grunting, loudly, and hopefully, this is the last of it. For now.

I sigh shakily as he finishes inside of me, the slimy, sticky fluid making me feel gross… More so, that is.

The force of him yanking himself out of me to slide off the counter, and onto the ground. I grunt, my eyes open, wide open. I'm staring at his bare knees, they're glossy from the sweat. He stinks. Not like sweat… I can smell the second hand smoke, and… I don't want to know what else that is.

I think I hear him asking me what I'm doing down here, and I don't answer. He doesn't make another verbal sound, and he leans down to pick up his pants. We make eye contact for a split second, and then he's gone. I'm faced with his rough denim for a moment, and then, nothing.

I lean against the dishwasher, panting, worried. I don't know where Craig's gone, but I know it isn't a rehab centre, or a doctor. Once the now throbbing pain in my lower back subsides- somewhat- I reach up to the counter, and try and lift myself off the ground. Once I do, I repeat Craig's actions, and bend down to pick up my pants. I notice the little pool of Craig on the ground, and I sigh. I stand up straight, the throbbing pain increasing tenfold. I grunt, and lean onto the counter. I shut my eyes, and let my teeth cut into my lip.

I hear the phone ring, and I nearly jump out of my skin. It rings again… I walk over to it, hesitant to answer the phone- _Craig's _phone. The third ring gives me enough confidence, though, and I pick it up and hit the talk button. "H-Hello?"

"Tweek?" I hear a nasally voice ask me. Momentarily, I thought it was Craig, but to my relief- or surprise- I realized it was Clyde.

"Gah! Yes!"

"Why are you answering Craig's phone?"

"I… I don't know! Why are you calling?"

"I wanted to ask him something, that's all. But he's obviously not around, so…"

"Wait! Argh, please don't hang up yet!" I don't know why I ask for him to stay on the line, but I have. My eyes are shut, and my free hand is in my hair.

"Okay then. What's up?" I almost expect this nasally voice to just go completely dull, not caring, no emotion. Clyde is far from no emotion.

"I… I want to break up with Craig! B-But! But I don't know how!" do I act differently when I'm around Craig?

"What? Why?" he asks, so ignorant. I can't blame him, no… I can only blame myself for the lack of knowledge.

"I just- uh- don't want to be with him anymore! I-I… I don't think he wants me anymore…" that's one way of putting it, I guess.

"What? No way, dude! Craig loves you, man!"

"Do you have any reasoning for that?" I ask, dead serious, my free hand leaving my hair to grip the bottom of the phone, barely missing the microphone.

"He always wants you to stay at his house, and stuff… " he's unsure of it… I close my eyes. _I cannot blame him_.

"Hm, well, I guess s-so," I lie, I lie… I can't deal with this, though. I don't want to… Is Clyde really being serious, though? Is he right?

"Yea, dude! We should hang out sometime… Anyways, gotta go… My battery's running low! Make sure you tell your lover I called!" he snickers, and I utter a 'bye', and hang up. The words won't sink in; they just _sting_, like I've been slapped across the face. I place the phone on the base, and hear a grunt of agony from upstairs. Without a thought, I run up the stairs.

I hear something splashing; and I stop running. He is throwing up… I can hear him coughing, grunting… As I walk towards the bathroom, I think I can smell a light, yet harsh, scent of stomach bile. I can hear him sobbing… Opening the door, I see him, kneeling in front of the toilet. His head is halfway down, and he is dry heaving.

I do what I always do.

My legs move me towards him, and I sit down on the edge of the tub, which is so close to him. My knees his the side of the toilet, and my hand goes onto his back. It's cold… He's cold. He coughs up chunks of the last thing he ate- I can't- and won't- identify what's in there… I can ignore the smell. "Craig…" I whisper, softly, and I feel him lurch forward, his head hitting the edge of the toilet seat.

"Tweek… My stomach… It's on _fire_, Tweek! Make it stop…" he's writhing with the need for this to end… I am unsure of what I should be saying to him. "I won't do it again, I _promise_, just make it _stop_!" he tells me.

His words are more hallow than the pipeline beneath this toilet.

"Shh, Craig, you're okay," my recycled words make me cringe, slightly, "I'm here for you, Craig."

After a long night of toilet bowl confessions, I had lead him to the bed, and let him pass out there. I find myself staring at that cold, rough hair, again, worrying. I know one day that he is going to overdose. His times of 'coming down' are getting longer, and seem much worse for him.

I shut my eyes, and try to sleep.

I wake up, the hair still in my face, and he's still out. I slip out of the bed, and find that the heat's cranked rather than completely off. I don't mind it, but I turn it down. I can almost guarantee that he's sweated through the blankets and sheets.

I need to get out of this, and I know I do, but I don't know how. It's like an addiction- cliché like the rain, yes- but I cannot escape.

And neither can Craig.

I hear the mattress squeak, and see him rise from the bed, staggering as he walks towards me. He tries to find balance with the wall, but I see that it isn't helping him. I look back to the thermostat, and feel his clammy, cool arms wrap around me. I feel conflicted with these actions… Are they just for his pleasure, or are they for mine as well?

I feel like I am about to wake up any moment- I _know_ it. I close my eyes, and feel him kiss my neck, and I am oh so scared. I do not want to anger him… I don't want to be in this position.

My heart is racing at incredible speeds, and he traces his lips along my neck, and I feel him sucking, softly, _lovingly_.

He goes on like this, and I still can't envision anything other than him hurting me, but I try to shove those thoughts and ambitions and worries from my brain, from my _heart_. I know I can't, so I don't.

Craig eventually gets into my pants, after a while, and pulls them down softly. Not a word is spoken between the two of us. His moves are flowing, almost as though he's been practicing… The freaks me out even more, sadly.

I can feel him palming my ass, and I feel him squeeze it, too. I am so worried, so worried…

I gasp a bit, the feeling of his long, slim fingers inside me… As soon as they enter, they are pulled out with an unimaginable force, and his hands press onto my back and shove me into the wall, my chin hits the corner of the thermostat, and I feel a warm liquid run down my chin. That's nothing compared to the nails digging into my skin, right above my bum.

"You fucking _whore_! You've been sleeping around, you loose fucking slut!" I hear him, piercing me physically and mentally. I knew this was coming, I knew.

My eyes close tight as his hands grip my hair, and yank my head back, and push me forward, into the wall. I squeeze my eyes closed, and keep them there. "Fucking whore!" I sigh shakily, and yelp when he repeats the action, _harder_.

Somewhere, inside of me, I want to challenge him. I want to tell him that he's the whore, that _he's _the insufferable asshole.

But I cannot.

I hear him grunt, and he pulls me backwards so that I am now on the floor. My head hits the carpet, and for a moment, the carpet is as soft as it gets. It cushions and cradles my head, making me temporarily think that Craig is like carpet- he can be so good, so comforting- for that little moment- in contrast to everything else.

Sometimes.

I cringe and groan in pain, his bare foot coming in contact with my bare thigh, his toenails digging into me and pulling away. It is all happening much too slowly, and it's so painful.

Or maybe it's just painful because of what was happening before.

I am in a world of shit. Repetition. Mistakes. _It is no where near pleasant_.

But here I am, here, allowing him to do whatever he pleases to himself, and to me. I make so little effort to stop it. I know I can, if I _wanted_ to. But, I don't.

"Whore! You asshole!" I hear him screech, breaking me from my thoughts. He steps on me, and then walks away. He is mad, and I know that he has very little control over it. I am fully aware of everything- every reason, every motive, every emotion. I know I can stop him. I can stop him _anytime_ I want, just like he can stop shooting up, _anytime_. I can maintain control over this.

I remain on the ground, not making any move to try and make the pain go away. I hear him coming back to me, and I feel my heart race. I know I can get up and run, escape and be free.

I don't.

"I swear to _fuck_, Tweek, you are so dumb. Did you honestly think I wouldn't find out?" his words still sting, so that's a plus.

_I'm not numb_.

I am well aware that he is using me as a channel for his hatred, whenever he is sober, but I am okay with that. I am okay with keeping this secret to myself. I am okay with everything, and I as I slowly accept all this. This was my choice to begin with. I gave into the pressure, and let this happen.

Maybe this entire situation is my fault- but I don't want to place blame for something like this.

I feel a burning on my skin, and I have trouble identifying the sensation. There is nothing pleasurable about this, but I am accepting it, if just a little. It burns, and it's wet. Is it boiling water?

I don't know, and I have no intention of knowing. I know I can't escape… It would be pointless to know.

I am okay with that.


End file.
